


Shut Your Mouth and Hold Your Breath

by Randominity



Series: Shut Your Mouth and Hold  Your Breath [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Molestation, Sexual Dysfunction, sexual extortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/pseuds/Randominity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written to fill my own kinkmeme prompt. Louis is coerced into performing sexual favours in order to progress through The X Factor and to protect the other boys in One Direction.</p><p>
  <i>...sometimes he looks at himself and wonders if he's dreaming what they're doing, like if he's not really in his head when it happens, there's a chance that it's not real at all.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Your Mouth and Hold Your Breath

" _You have three 'yes's,_ " Simon tells him, and it's the best news Louis' ever gotten in his life, right up there with " _you're going to be a big brother,_ " even better still than " _you've won the role of Danny, lad._ " His face already hurts from grinning by the time he makes his way off the stage, can see Dermot chatting with Stan and can't wait to run off with him and yell about it, to sweep Hannah up in his arms and kiss her silly. He hands off his mic and fixes his fringe, dodging another contestant and the cameraman following her, and someone taps him on the shoulder. It's a member of X Factor staff, and he nods at Louis when Louis points to himself and mouths, "me?"

"You're wanted for an interview," the staffer tells him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Can you come with me?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Louis shrugs and glances back over his shoulder at Stan and Hannah, catches their eye. He waves and gestures to the staffer, makes a "beats me" face at them. He's led past assorted family and friends gathered in pockets to support their respective contestants, to a less-populated section of the hall, ducking into a short corridor lined with a few doors.

"Right in here," the staffer tells him and opens the door, gesturing for Louis to go inside.

"Thanks," Louis tells him, checking for a nametag and finding none. "Sorry, what was your name?"

The staffer seems surprised that Louis asked. "Dean," he says.

"Thanks, Dean," Louis says. "I'm Louis. Thanks again," he repeats, holding out his hand.

Dean looks at his hand and shakes it quickly. "Right, sure, cheers," he says, and disappears around the corner.

The room is more greenroom than office, sofas and ottomans and endtables, a few mirrors around and a toilet toward the back. Louis wanders around it, touching surfaces and picking up small carvings of animals, tracing a few plaques that hang on the walls. He checks his mail on his phone and texts Hannah _having interview, not sure how long, sorry for the wait_ and waits to get her _np :) xx_ before slipping his phone back into his pocket and sitting down to wait.

It's a while, and Louis is starting to wonder if maybe he's been forgotten, because the corridor wasn't exactly on the beaten path, but eventually he hears voices and the door opens and Simon Cowell walks in, followed by Louis Walsh. Louis almost feels he should stand, and is halfway to doing so when Simon waves him down again, drinking from a water bottle. "Please," Simon tells him. "Stay sitting. You should be comfortable."

The other judge just heads past both Simon and Louis to perch on the arm of a sofa in the far rear corner of the room. He raises his eyebrows at Simon, as if expecting him to take the lead, and Louis' gaze is torn between the two of them, unable to take them both in at once.

"Now, Louis," Simon says after he's closed the door behind him, "why do you think you're here today?"

"Erm, I was told there'd be an interview?" Louis says. He'd also figured there'd be cameras, but when he thinks about it, he's never seen a televised interview from within a room like this before, so maybe this is the standard.

Simon glances heavenward as if to ask why he has to put up with the help, and smiles, not unkindly, at Louis. "All right, then," he says. "Let's start with this: how do you think you did on your audition?"

"Well," Louis says, feeling his cheeks grow hot, the memory of every flubbed note and his crushing anxiety still so near, "I could've done better, I think, 'cause I was just so nervous, you know, um, but then, you said yes, so." He reaches up and smooths his fringe self-consciously.

"You need a lot of work," Louis' voice comes from behind him, and Louis whips his head to look over his shoulder, having forgotten for the moment that the other judge was here, too, or that he'd got behind him. "More work than we can give you in Bootcamp, I think," Louis goes on. He sighs. "Listen, you seem like a nice kid, but what we're saying here is that you got our vote based on your potential, not your raw talent."

Well, all right, that's a bit harsh, Louis thinks, but he's already admitted his audition wasn't up to scratch, and he's not sure what else they want from him, so he thinks, _just like a job interview, then,_ and summons a grin. "Well, I really appreciate the opportunity," he says, trying to seem cheerful. "I know I'll do better in the Bootcamp stage; I know I'm gonna have to work hard to prove myself." He nods. "Thanks so much, really."

"Oh, for god's--" Simon huffs impatiently, jerking his chin over Louis' shoulder to the other man. "Louis, you're being too subtle for the kid. _You_ , _contestant_ Louis," he says, turning his attention back to Louis. "Look, I'm gonna have to tell you: your voice didn't earn you those 'yes' votes; your pretty mouth did."

Louis' smile wavers, uncertain. He knows that looks play a part in determining someone's X Factor from previous series, and he's happy that Louis and Simon think they can work with what he's got, whatever it is that he's got. He doesn't really like the way Simon said it, though, as though he only got through on his looks or something. He's not the best singer - he knows that - but he knows he's all right, he just needs work and maybe training and he really, really just wanted to know if they thought he could sing or not, so if they don't, well, then... then he doesn't know what. "I'm sorry?" says, hoping for some clarification.

"Well, let's not beat around the bush, here," Simon says, folding his arms. "You're a big boy, I'm sure you understand how these things work. We've done you a favour, passing you through to Bootcamp, and now we expect you to show a little gratitude. We scratch your back..." Simon trails off and raises an eyebrow.

Louis jerks his head back, feeling like he's been struck. " _What?_ " he says before he can catch himself, and this has got to be a joke; someone has got to be having him on and there has to be a camera around here somewhere because, Louis thinks, this is the sort of thing that happens in movies, like casting couches and he's. He's a lad from Hall Cross sat in an X Factor audition hall and he has to have mis-heard. This will be funny, he thinks, when his heart comes down from his throat.

Neither man says anything for what seems a long while, and then Louis speaks up from behind him. "You heard him," is all he says.

Louis is well aware that he's gaping, can hear his breath loud in the insulated room, and he shakily rises to his feet, head swimming. "I'm not--" he starts, glancing between the judges, his throat dry. _Gay_ , he thinks, or _like that_ , and he realises it doesn't matter anyway, does it, what he's like, if this is what they want him to do. "I'm... no," he says, shaking his head slowly, hating how small his voice sounds to his own ears. "No," he says again, and glances at the door.

"Oh, of course you're free to go," Simon says nonchalantly, following his gaze. "You'll have to explain to our security outside the door that you didn't, in fact, nick anything of ours, of course. Oh, and explain to your friends and family about how you just got through to Bootcamp but have suddenly decided you'd rather go home. I'm sure they'll find your excuses very convincing. How long did you wait in line to audition today? I'm curious."

"I-- I could yell," Louis says numbly. He's feeling light-headed, the sound of his breathing the only way he's certain he's still taking in air.

"How soundproofed are these walls, Louis?" Simon asks, deferring to the other judge.

"Bands rehearse in here in relative peace and quiet," Louis shrugs. "You tell me."

"Oh, god," Louis whispers. He has no idea how he's even going to... what they will make him do. He has no idea if Hannah and Stan will even notice if he's gone too long, or what he would tell them if he left now, or what he would tell them if he _didn't_. He has no idea if he will even be able to look them in their faces.

He feels the fight leave him, sinks back down into the chair, and realises he's biting furiously at his thumbnail.

"Not over there," Simon tells him. "Come here."

His mind is racing and he hasn't any answers and he feels like time has somehow just... stopped, in the room, with no one to turn to, and so Louis goes, feet dragging like they weigh a few stone each, until he's close enough to Simon to touch without stretching out an arm. Simon points to the ground at his feet, and, swallowing hard, Louis kneels, his eyes burning. He sets his jaw and refuses to cry, not even a little. He can be hard, he knows. He's not always pretty. He can show them that.

And then maybe he'll be sent home anyway, after, a small voice says in his head, to his horror, as though some part of him has already accepted that he's going to do this to secure his own success.

"I hope you don't need further direction on this," Simon tells him, smirking. "I'm sure you can figure out what to do."

Louis delivers what he hopes is a withering glare upward through his fringe, then jerkily goes through the motions of all the things he knows about getting blowjobs; belt unfastening, trouser unbuttoning, fly down. He has to steel himself before reaching inside, and then fight to keep from jerking back when he finds Simon's cock, already hard. He pulls it out through the opening in Simon's pants and takes a moment too long to begin, because Simon sighs impatiently, saying, "you know we have to get back out there and judge in a minute," and Louis opens his mouth just as Simon fists a hand in his hair and pushes him down.

Simon's cock bumps his lips and then slips inside, and Louis' first thought is, _I could bite_ , and yeah, everything would be over for him then, but it would be for Simon Cowell, too. What he does instead is brace himself with a panicked hand on Simon's hip, pushing back on Simon's hand with his head until Simon releases his grip and mutters, "get it right; I don't have time to teach you."

And he tries. He tries to keep his teeth away and tries not to think about Simon's cock, the musky smell of him. He makes himself bring up a hand to circle what his lips can't reach, squeezing and letting his spit wet it, for what feels like forever, just numbly moving and trying not to think about anything, until Simon grunts. It's the only warning Louis has before warmth and salt flood his mouth and when he tries to pull off, Simon's hand is back, trapping him again. "Can't be getting in your hair, now, can we," Simon says, voice strained, and Louis feels moisture slip from his lips, his own saliva and Simon's semen, as he tries to swallow and not choke. He holds his hands under his chin to keep from getting any on his clothes, then drops to all fours when Simon releases his hair, retching once, quietly, though thankfully nothing comes up.

Then another hand is forcing him down toward the carpet by the back of the neck, and he barely has time to think - _Louis_ \- before the bottom of his shirt and jumper are rucked up and warm stripes paint his back. His eyes fill with tears at that, and he pants harshly, staring wide-eyed at the floor, afraid to blink and let any fall.

Simon and Louis only allow him a moment before a box of tissues is set down beside him. "Get a hold of yourself," Simon says as he crosses the room to the door. "Someone could come in here and see, once we're gone."

Louis waits until they've left, then grabs blindly at the tissues and reaches behind himself to wipe at the streaks on his back before pulling his shirt and jumper back down. He rushes into the toilet to look at himself, and finds he still looks relatively composed despite his red, wet lips. His eyes aren't red-rimmed and his skin isn't mottled or flushed. If anything he's a bit pale, he thinks, and then is hit by a wave of nausea, gets suddenly sick in the sink bowl.

Strangely, he feels a bit better after that; he cleans up, washes his hands under the tap and splashes his face with cold water, rinses out his mouth, and exits the room alone. He passes the security detail that's now posted outside and nobody stops him, or spares him a second glance at all.

Hannah and Stan are waiting for him in a corner of the hall, having been supplanted from their spot before the monitors by the friends and supporters of another contestant. Their heads are tilted together in conversation, and Stan sees him first, whooping and throwing his hands in the air. "Man of the hour!" he shouts, and he and Hannah jog over to meet him halfway. Louis puts on the biggest grin he can muster and hugs Hannah tightly, bussing her on the side of her neck where she's warm and smells so familiar and welcoming, before pulling Stan into the hug.

"You were good," Hannah's telling him, "you did so good, I'm so proud," and Louis can't stop himself shaking his head; he keeps his face buried in her neck, takes a deep breath, holds it.

“Thanks,” he manages, murmured against her collarbone.

\-----

Louis spends the week before Bootcamp running songs by Stan, digging through his collection of covers, singing and stopping and changing the key and starting again until his voice breaks and Stan grabs him by the wrist, pulling his hand off the mouse. He says, “Lou. Louis, you're gonna wreck your throat. It's great; leave it, would you?”

He can't. He has to get this _perfect_ , he has to show he's got _something_ , something they can work with. He needs to earn this and he feels like this is a first audition all over again and he'll never find a song that just _works_. He tells Stan as much, more or less, and Stan nods, says, “right, we'll just. We'll look at more songs tomorrow, yeah? “

They agree he'll do “Make You Feel My Love” for his second audition if it's an option and if he makes it that far--

“ _if_ ,” Louis says, from around a fingernail, “I make it that far.”

“You'll make it that far,” Stan tells him, hand on his shoulder.

\--and Louis rings Hannah, sings it to her over the phone, his voice slightly raspy. “My popstar boyfriend,” she says, fondly, and he makes himself huff a laugh instead of disagreeing. 

He spends the day before he leaves at Hannah's while her parents are at work, showing off all the new clothes his grandad bought for him, and carefully packs them all into his suitcase he brought over, with Hannah's help. They snog for a long while, laid out on her bumblebee bedspread, and it's nice, warm and comfortable, Louis with one hand up under her shirt on Hannah's back and the other threading through her hair.

Eventually Hannah slides her thigh between Louis' legs and distantly, he thinks they ought to be having sex already, would be, probably, but he's only just now starting to get worked up. It's just... he's going to London tomorrow and he's got so much to prove. There are so many things he's not sure about what will happen, and what will happen after those things, and he wants to draw this moment out somehow, just freeze himself here, him and Hannah and her bumblebee bedspread, her hair caught between his fingertips.

Hannah moves to straddle his hips and it's like time starts moving in jumps and skips because suddenly he's got his trousers and pants down and she's rolling a condom over him. He reaches down, frowning, and touches himself, stroking a couple of times, watching his own hand move because for a moment he could have sworn his hardon belonged to someone else, and that's... he's so turned on and he doesn't remember getting there. Hannah smiles against his mouth as she sinks down on him, displacing his hand and murmuring, “greedy,” and Louis looks up at her and feels like he can see her from above.

She's warm and tight around him and he has his hands on her head, and he can see them, his fingers clenching into fists and releasing in her hair, the bumps of her spine as she moves over him, the skirt she's kept on despite removing her pants. He feels more, watching them fuck from some spot on the ceiling, than he does from the press of her breasts against his chest, her knees around his waist. He comes, quicker than he thought he would, quick enough that he doesn't even have time to try to hold it off; that's for the first time in a long time, and suddenly Hannah's in focus above him again, looking flushed and confused, giving him a small smile.

“You didn't say anything,” she says. “You all right?”

He nods and grins at her a bit sheepishly, wanting to play it off, because he's not sure if he is all right, or what that was. “I think I just had an out-of-body experience,” he says, licking his lips, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Oh-- well, then,” she giggles, flicking her hair, and rolls off him. “Compliment accepted! I love you, too.”

\-----

The first day of Bootcamp is like being in a new school and sitting for exams combined, and Louis occupies himself in every free moment seeking out friendly faces, or at the very least boys who look more frightened than he feels. He's feeling shy, doesn't think he can fake confidence right now if his life depended on it, but when it comes to giving someone a leg up, that's where he's a natural.

He hits it off straight away with a kid named Aiden who looks like he was just born to perform and whose voice gives him chills, and there's a quiet boy calling himself Zayn from Bradford who's actually quite clever once he starts talking. He tells Louis, “my mum made me go audition, I didn't even really want to,” and “I just don't feel like I even belong here,” which makes Louis glance at him sharply, wondering for a moment if he's... if maybe they've got that in common. But then Zayn's huge brown eyes are peering around the room at other contestants, as he says, with awe, “it's like everyone else has got, like, training or summat, like, _stage presence_ ,” and Louis chalks his statements up to lack of confidence instead.

It's strange and unsettling both, hearing his voice put up for contrast against the other members of the Boys category as they sing Man in the Mirror, when some of the other lads have these huge, booming voices and Louis' never been able to sing as well as he can yell. He keeps count in his head of the boys he thinks he's done better than, but the judges aren't giving any direct feedback, no matter how he searches Simon's and Louis' impassive faces. At the end of it he can't tell whether he feels he ought to be in the top half or the bottom half, but he did all right, he thinks, wouldn't do it differently if he had it to do over.

And if it's not enough, he doesn't know what he'll do, or if they'll even offer, or if they'll... give up on him. He doesn't know what he could be _made_ to do, and the thought makes his stomach clench because he doesn't want it, _any_ of this, but if they end up deciding he's not worth it, like he's just _nothing_... he doesn't understand how that thought can hurt more than what they've already done, and he hates that it does, hates himself a little for it.

He's not cut. He's called onstage with a group of Boys and he recognises Zayn, and Aiden, and the curly-haired boy he met in the toilets, and he thinks, _oh my god, I'm in. I'm really, properly in,_ and has to fight the beginnings of a smile behind his hands because they haven't been told yet, but he knows there's no way they're letting those boys go home.

The rest of Bootcamp passes in a blur until his second audition; Louis'd be more anxious about the dancing but he's had to learn choreography before, and looking around, he's far from the most awkward boy trying to co-ordinate their steps. There's something about the fact that they have to do the dance together that soothes him. It's just so much nicer, not having to be singled out, that he just does it, throws himself into it and lets himself be a little silly when it comes to freestyling because he knows they're looking for personality, too, and that's not something he's ever been short on.

Things are so different when he's next stood on stage alone in front of Simon and Louis and Nicole, and he should have known, really, should have seen that coming, but he'd been all right so far, and he'd thought... He hadn't thought. He'd been so stupid, he realises, and now he's supposed to sing Adele all by himself and he's holding his mic tightly with both hands to stop them shaking and if he loses pitch, if he loses pitch right now....

He misses his cue by a half beat and soldiers on anyway, staring far over the judges' heads into the audience instead of at either of _them_ , and it's all he can do to get through the number and he's _done_ , he knows. He can't expect this to be one of the better performances they've seen today, and he's counted himself out before Simon's even signalled for the music to stop, giving him a curt “thank you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles into the mic, pursing his lips more than smiling, and makes himself walk the length of the stage before thrusting the mic into a staffer's hands and making a beeline for the toilets. 

Dermot intercepts him with a surprisingly strong grip around the shoulders, saying, “hey, now, wait, wait, are you all right?” and Louis knows he signed waivers about his likeness on the telly and everything, but he's not going to let England and his mum and Stan see him cry over this, so he nods furiously, adjusting his fringe, saying,

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I'm good,” and Dermot pulls him into a hug with a firm hand to the shoulderblade and murmurs,

“No cameras here, lad, you're all right,” into his ear.

 _Oh thank god,_ Louis thinks, and lets himself sag gratefully against him, his hands pawing up the back of Dermot's blazer. He still doesn't cry properly, just allows himself a shaky breath exhaled into Dermot's lapel while Dermot pats his back in comfort, and then Dermot's pulling away from him, holding him at arm's length with an appraising look. “Were you _that_ unhappy with your audition?” he asks gently. “It didn't go so badly, did it?”

“I just wanted it to be,” Louis knows he sounds miserable and his voice breaks; he clears his throat and continues. “I wanted it to be perfect. I really... I just wanted to show them what I could do, and I,” he says, and leaves it at that, lets Dermot wrap his arms round him again.

“Well, it's kind of their job to see through all those nerves to your potential, isn't it,” Dermot tells him, and Louis can feel himself smile sarcastically into Dermot's shoulder, detaching himself from the embrace.

“Yeah,” he says, and finds he can't look into Dermot's eyes when he continues, “it's all about the potential,” and Dermot grips his shoulder and dips his head into the path of Louis' gaze where it's directed at the floor.

“You're a good lad,” Dermot says insistently, holding Louis' gaze steady, “and young. If this doesn't work out, you have next year, so many years, so don't let this mess with your head, yeah? Don't let them get the better of you.”

Louis bites his lip and stares at Dermot, feeling Dermot's fingers massaging the back of his neck, and Dermot doesn't know, he _can't_ know, can he, what's happening, or what's happened. Louis doesn't think so, but for a second, Dermot's eyes are sad and compassionate and Louis thinks, _no cameras_ , sucks a breath in and wonders if he could ask Dermot to talk to him somewhere else, thinks maybe he could say it if it were just Dermot.

A staffer comes up behind Dermot's shoulder, touching him lightly, and Dermot gives Louis another squeeze before straightening up and leaning away to address her, and just like that, the opening's gone. Louis rubs at his cheeks with his hands and nods reflexively when Dermot turns back to him, apologetic. “Well, I have to be off,” Dermot's telling him, “but you hang in there, you'll be fine, all right?” and Louis raises his eyebrows, lips pressed together, and says,

“Right, thanks,” and turns away so he doesn't have to see Dermot leave.

\-----

Louis' not particularly surprised when he emerges from the toilets on the final day of Bootcamp to see Dean the staffer casually patrolling the corridor. In fact, he finds he has to refrain from laughing at first, because the idea that Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh have a staffer dedicated to sniffing out boys who might be willing to suck their cocks is just the sort of morbid tale he'd have found amusing from a tabloid journo, before.

If Dean mistakes Louis' stifled smirk for a greeting, he gives no indication, just nods at him in acknowledgment. “Could you come with me?” Dean asks him, and Louis simply shrugs a shoulder, sliding his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. He's led through a section of the arena he's not seen before, starts seeing more staffers than contestants, and then Dean's gesturing to the door to the staffer toilets, unlocking it and pushing it open a crack. Louis stares hard at the door, shaking his head slowly in dismay, but he can't bring himself to direct the glare he so wants to fire at Dean because Dean has to know, he _must_ , and Louis doesn't think he could handle seeing it for himself in Dean's face.

He takes a breath and pushes in the rest of the way, casting his eyes around the large room, the single stall, and Louis' voice suddenly comes from the side corner of the room. “You're a strong dancer,” the judge says, by way of greeting. “ _Could_ be a strong dancer, with good choreography behind you.”

Louis nods stiffly, turning to face him and bringing his hands back behind him to grip the counter top.

“I have an opening,” Louis continues, conversational, as he starts to unbuckle his belt. “One more name I can submit for the pool of final contestants.” He frees one hand to beckon with it, and Louis forces himself to let go of the counter, takes a halting step forward. “It's yours if you want it,” he says, and he has his trousers undone and his pants pulled down below his cock by the time Louis' sluggishly made his way across the room, as if there's no question that he'll drop to his knees once he gets there.

Louis is kinder with words than Simon was, but rougher physically, gripping a fistful of Louis' hair through his beanie and directing his pace, and that makes it harder for his mind to stray and simply go through the motions, each sharp tug or push keeping him from holding his eyes shut, or making him gag and squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes.

The judge bumps Louis' beanie unceremoniously from his head and pulls him off his cock when he comes, holding him in place while he spurts over the side of his face and into his hair. Louis hears him murmur, “so pretty, oh, what we could do with you,” from above and opens his eyes, glancing up, appalled, as though this is actually some sort of attempt to _flatter_ him, or to be tender.

It's then he realises, with a sick jolt in his stomach, that Louis has been watching them both in the mirror across the room the whole time.

\-----

Aiden's name gets called, and Paije's and Matt's, and then Simon's saying that's it for the Boys, and Louis isn't shocked, exactly. He doesn't believe in divine retribution, but his hair is still damp under his beanie, haphazardly washed in the sink then dried with the hand dryer in the staffer toilet, and it's almost satisfying to be disgusted with himself for how quick he was to get to his knees, like maybe he deserved to be had. How much honesty could he really expect from someone who would give him something for a blow job, anyway?

He stares out at the Judges Table and bitterly thinks _that's showbiz, Tommo_ , then turns to pat the back of the nearest crying Boy, as they leave the stage.

It's a different staffer who comes for him this time, a female one, telling him he's wanted for more interviews, and he doesn't even know what to think at that, his stomach churning and flipping in turns. He simply stares at her, feels himself squint, mouth open in disbelief, and he must look fierce because she blinks, takes an involuntary step back. “Erm,” she says, gesturing with her clipboard. “Over there, with the other contestants, they're, er. Waiting,” and he looks where she's pointing and sees them, safe and out in the open and most importantly, being filmed. He closes his mouth and breathes out, caught between embarrassment and relief.

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Right, sure.”

And then they're ushered onstage, and Nicole's saying they were too good to let go, and Louis doesn't even attempt to hide the smile that spreads across his face. He's seen these other boys, he knows how gutted they all were, and he throws himself into the arms of the curly-haired boy he now knows is Harry, whispering “told you so, told you so,” in his ear because he _had_ , he just _knew_ this kid would be something. Harry doesn't even stumble, just grabs him under the thighs and spins him once then puts him down, and they pull apart, grinning at each other.

Backstage, and later outside the arena, Louis can't stop touching any of them, pulling them in by the shoulders again and again, because all he can think, all he keeps thinking, is _there was one more opening, and I'm in it_.

\-----

The boys exchange phone numbers before leaving the arena, and start messaging each other almost constantly; they receive a series of apologetic and increasingly earnest texts from Liam, who had wanted to take some time out backstage before agreeing to be put in the band and doesn't seem to believe their protestations that it wasn't an unforgivable offense, that read

_i rlly hope u dont think i didnt want too be in group wit u ladds_

_u all r sooo nice i like u loads alrdyy_

_jus kneaded a mo too think abt it yeah??_

_wwe will make this work out i kno ill work rllyy hrad :-)_

Louis texts back with 

_you're alright liam, I like you too_

because the lad's just so kind and has an amazing voice and it's good to know he's just as serious about making this work as Louis is.

In the van on the way to Harry's stepdad's bungalow, he's restless with excitement and anticipation at the prospects, of friendship and freedom both. He's eager at the opportunity to just be himself with nothing to prove, with four boys who think he's there same as them, wide-eyed and in awe of their own talent. He's eager to be one of them, to be like one of them.

Feeling puppyish, he pushes his face into Liam's shoulder beside him, nuzzling into the fabric of his t-shirt, and Liam looks down at him, an uncertain smile curling his lips. Louis tilts his head and sticks his tongue out the corner of his mouth, panting, and when Liam's brow furrows, he yelps like a dog, startling a laugh and a confused “what is _that?_ ” out of him.

Satisfied with that response, Louis turns and licks the window, then rolls it down and sticks his head out of it, barking, the wind rustling his fringe beneath his beanie. The yelp he lets out when he feels Liam's hands grip his shoulders is unfortunately unintentional, as Liam pulls him back down, forcefully.

“Do you want to lose your head?” Liam asks him, incredulous. “Keep it inside, that's dangerous.”

Louis raises a skeptical eyebrow at him, feeling around to see if his beanie is still sitting right. “Pretty sure that's only for trains and buses, mate,” he says, then leans back out the window to yell in a shrill RP, “please keep your heads and arms inside the vehicle at all times!”

“It's just,” Liam mumbles, when he's sat back down again, “you could get hurt, you should be careful.”

“You also licked the window,” Niall points out. “You don't know where that window's been.”

It's like the lot of them have been programmed to parrot their mums now that they're far from home. Louis shrugs, raises his eyebrows. “It's probably been all the way to,” he gasps, “ _Cheshire!_ ” he whispers conspiratorially, and Niall laughs.

“You're weird,” he declares, shaking his head.

“I _am_ a bit weird,” Louis agrees, “we can't all be the Irish one, can we?” He'd be okay with being the weird one, he thinks. It'd be better than what he feels he is now.

“I can do an Irish accent,” Harry volunteers from over his shoulder from where he's sat in front, and when Niall answers,

“Unbelievable!” in Peter Dickson's voice, Louis is impressed into applause, one moment before the van erupts into a cacophony of accent comparisons and impressions.

\-----

They spend a fair amount of time at the bungalow either swimming or laying around in their pants - or, in Harry's case, sans pants - on mattresses they've dragged out to pile on the floor, simply learning about and from each other. They all experiment with Harry's nudism for a while, tentatively taking their bathing suits off in the pool; after a few days Zayn joins them at the bungalow too, teaching them how to say the Muslim shahada in Arabic, and the others nearly pull muscles trying to turn their tongues sideways the way Louis can.

Louis learns things like that Harry absolutely loves having his hair played with, which is fortunate, because Louis finds he loves playing with Harry's hair. He's never been close friends with anyone with such thick curls, and when he brushes at Harry's hairline just to feel the baby wisps as they slump together on the sofa, Harry hums, says “s'nice,” so he goes ahead and pushes his fingers experimentally through the longer curls and Harry goes pliant like a cat, eyes half-closed and leaning into the contact.

“Are you serious?” Louis teases him. “Does that do something for you, or something?” He flexes his fingers and Harry makes a sound suspiciously like a purr, and Niall laughs from the floor, saying,

“I think this just took a kinky turn.”

“Nah, no,” Harry says, smiling and waving his hand at them as if to explain. “It just-- feels nice,” he repeats, voice low. “It doesn't feel nice when someone does it to you?”

Niall simply shrugs, nudges Zayn with his big toe where he's stretched out sleeping on his stomach. Liam shakes his head slowly, but Louis' seen him flat-iron his hair straight in the mornings so he doesn't think anyone's been allowed to get their fingers in there for some time.

“Sure,” Louis tells Harry, thinking back, “like my mum or my girlfriend, but it's not like--”

“Nobody _else_ has done it to you?” Harry wants to know.

 _Like who_ , Louis thinks but does not ask, because the only other people he can think of who've had their hands in his hair are. Well, that's not something he's going to count. “Well, we can't all have irresistible curls like you,” Louis reasons. “Some of us are not so blessed - one might even say we are _cursed_ – with boring, flat--”

\--and then Harry's hand is on the back of Louis' head, fingers gently moving over his scalp and threading through his hair, and _oh_. It _is_ kind of nice that way; Louis feels his head loll into it for a moment, hears Niall start to cackle in the background and can't bring himself to care.

“But anyway,” he makes himself go on. “You just... _let_ people do it to you all the time, and it's just,” he closes his eyes for a second as Harry continues to massage his head. This is really, really nice. “And you can't just, like.”

“Can't what?” Harry asks, amused.

“In public, everywhere,” Louis mumbles, his hand dropping from Harry's head, too much effort to hold it up. “It's, it's _wanton_.”

“ _Wanton?_ ” Harry barks a laugh, and his fingers tickle Louis' scalp before he pulls away, and Louis opens his eyes, bereft of touch. “All right, then,” Harry says, feigning seriousness. “I won't do you in public, then. Wouldn't want you to seem _wanton_.”

“You're a gentleman for keeping this between us, Harry,” Louis says, and lets himself slide bonelessly off the sofa to the floor.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Niall mutters from beneath him, instead of “oof” like a normal person.

\-----

They all have different musical tastes, and yet they manage to avoid fighting about it when they actually get started singing, falling easily into compromise as though they've been sharing since primary school. Niall doesn't strictly object to rapping along to Stereo Hearts, just strums his guitar and picks up Adam Levine's part like he's been practicing his whole life for it, and from there they have Zayn singing Maroon 5 and Liam singing The Fray and Louis has to admit he does an impressive Barbie Girl.

They sing all the time, after that; in the living room, and sat at the kitchen table, and outside round the campfire, and laying on their backs on the mattress pile they've set up in the backyard. Louis learns to sing with Liam's head on his chest, taking his suggestions of

“no, not from up here,” with a hand tapping Louis' sternum, “or here,” fingers brushing his Adam's apple. “From here,” and his fingertips are pressing in just above Louis' navel, Liam saying, gently, “sing it again,”

and if he sings a bit quietly, half intimidated and half afraid at being caught out, nobody mentions it. That's when he thinks he starts to love them all.

He can't say it's not entirely due to the pain medication he's on, because it's certainly helping with the anxiety, but Louis is feeling pretty good about their audition in Marbella. He hasn't taken a solo for “Torn” and doesn't even consider Liam's offer to share his verse with him, and even if he had, being in the emergency room for the day rules him out for practicing much anyway.

“Every boyband needs a chorus,” he tells them with a grin, feet propped up on plastic-covered chairs, the site of the sea urchin sting huge and red and ugly to his own eyes. “I happen to be an excellent chorus. I make you all sound amazing.”

“We sounded rubbish without you,” Liam tells him, and leans in to hug him awkwardly, head under his armpit, and Zayn rests his cheek on top of Louis' head and Niall and Harry burrow for space at the back of his neck, huffing into his hair, and Louis isn't going to fuck this up for them for the world.

Simon acts convincingly, pretending he doesn't know Louis from the others when he limps out for their audition, and it's a relief for Louis to play along, to put his focus on supporting the other boys. They're good, _sound_ good, Louis can tell because he's far enough removed from the vocals to hear how they work together, and he can't stop smiling, so proud and impressed by each of them and the sum of their parts.

They're put through to the live shows, and Niall is literally bouncing all over the beach in his excitement, and when Louis gives Simon a gracious hug, Simon holds him tight for a moment, crushing him against his mic. "See me after," he whispers into Louis' ear, and Louis closes his eyes and nods before pulling away, letting Zayn hug him, squeezing him hard.

They're filmed making their victorious exit from the Judges House, and then chatting with Dermot, and then, they're told, they basically have the afternoon free. Louis lets the boys know Simon asked to see him, sure he'll be able to come up with a plausible reason later, promises them he'll catch up with them, then hobbles the way back to the poolhouse that serves as a makeshift office for Simon.

"Do you know why I asked you to come here?" Simon asks once he's seated across a wicker table from him, and Louis' already tired of this game, blows a gust of air up through his fringe as he shakes his head.

"No," he says flatly, bringing one hand to his mouth to bite a fingernail and fighting to keep the other from clenching into a fist in his lap.

"You were good," Simon says, "better than I thought you'd be, honestly," and Louis allows himself a satisfied smirk from around the nail he's biting, "but I have two other groups who are as well." He leans back in his chair. "I'd be willing to bet you'd make it a few weeks into the live shows without my help, but," he raises his eyebrows and steeples his fingers. "Oh, just imagine how far you'd get _with_ it." He leans forward again, rests his elbows on the table. "So I've asked you here because I want to know: what are you going to do to get my support?"

Louis shakes his head slowly in disgust, letting his hand fall to grip the armrest of his chair. "That's not fair," he says, even as he knows there's no such thing. "They're so good, you can see that. They've worked so hard. _We,_ " he's careful to emphasise, "have worked _so hard._ " He hears his voice waver and realises belatedly that it's with fury, not sure when the emotion crept up on him or if it's just always been there, crawling beneath the surface.

"Oh, you'll get no argument from me," Simon agrees, shrugging and showing his palms in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm just asking you to help me make a decision. But I'll tell you what," he says, and sighs. "I can tell you're probably tired, so how about I ask one of the other boys and see if they have any ideas?"

Louis is on his feet before he can think about it, biting back a wince and shifting weight off his injured foot in the next instant. "You can't do that," he says sharply, and if Simon asks why not, he'll... he's never wanted to literally tear a person limb from limb before, to sink his teeth in and rip flesh. He's never been so viscerally angry, afraid of what he'd do if he had to, but he's learned a lot about what he'd do if he thought he had to, and that, somehow, makes him angrier.

"You won't," he hears himself say. "They're--" so young, he wants to say, thinking of Zayn's huge, awed eyes and Niall's exuberance and Harry's baby fat and Liam's awkward affection. They're so good, each of them, and together, and he'll hold them together if he has to. "Don't touch them," he says. "I'll do--" he falters. "I'll--"

Face burning under Simon's expectant gaze, he limps around the wicker table and comes to a stop near Simon's thigh. He licks his lips. "What do you want me to do?" he says, and Simon looks up at him, removes his sunglasses, and tosses them onto the table.

\-----

Louis is making his way down the path leading from the poolhouse back to the main road when he hears Niall's voice cry, "Oi! Louis!" and looks down the sidewalk to see him standing there, waving, the other boys sitting on the sidewalk by his feet. He stops short and stares blankly for a moment, holding his left flip-flop in his hand, before the boys spring into action and close the distance between them in an instant, arms encircling him from all angles.

"Er, hi," he gasps finally, the wind knocked out of him by Harry's grip around his waist, then, "what are you doing here?"

"Well," Liam says, taking a breath like he's winding up for a story, "we got started on our way to the hotel -- got on the bus and everything -- and then we were like, Louis is gonna have to wait," he frees an arm to gesture, " _twice_ as long for the bus, and we can't have him--"

"--and he's gonna have to walk the path on his bad foot," Zayn says, overlapping him,

"-- _all_ by himself," Liam says. "So then, we get _off_ the bus, had to catch--"

"--waited on the _next_ bus," Harry says, "came all the way back--"

"-- rode back, and you were still in there," Niall says, "so we had a sit-down to wait for you. We weren't waiting long," he's quick to add. "But you were in there for a hell of a long time, mate," and there's a slight scolding tone in the matter-of-fact way he says it that startles a laugh out of Louis despite himself.

He pulls away from their hug, a bit overwhelmed. "Boys, you'll get me started crying," he smiles, putting a hand on his chest, and it's only half a lie. If he's honest he's embarrassed as well, because he hates how having been stung has made everyone so much more mindful of him, opening him up to scrutiny. But it's sweet that they came back for him, and that might be all he needs from this, for them to think that he was worth it.

"What'd he have to say to you, anyway?" Harry wants to know, already reaching in to hug him again, and Louis backs away farther still, just out of reach, without really thinking about it. He glances over his shoulder at the closed door to the poolhouse and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck beneath his hair, still feeling the imprint of Simon's fingers there. There's the phantom sensation of stickiness between his legs, too, although he'd done his best to clean up in the toilet, after.

He hadn't known you could do that, just... push your cock between someone's thighs like that, and he'd been terrified, for a moment, thinking that Simon was going to put it in his arse, properly rape him. It was the first time he'd thought of what had been happening to him as rape, as anything like rape, and just as suddenly as the thought had hit him, it had been as though he were someone else, just watching it happen from elsewhere in the room like a terrible programme he couldn't turn away from, but least it hadn't felt like it was happening to him, anymore; at least he hadn't actually been _there_.

Louis digs his fingernails into the back of his neck until he feels the sting of the beginnings of bruises, and says, "he said I should mind you and the other boys,” shrugging a shoulder. “The whole responsibility speech, make sure you don't get in trouble and all that,” and it's easy enough to grin when Harry's biting his lip around a grin of his own, waggling his eyebrows.

"Right," Zayn says, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You _are_ the oldest, after all," he says, not quite convincingly serious.

"And therefore most responsible, obviously," Liam says drily, nodding.

"We'll just take your pants down from off the lamp fixture if he comes visit, shall we, and no one'll be the wiser," Harry says, and Louis closes the gap between them to sling an arm around his shoulders.

"I put my pants over the lamp fixture," he says solemnly, "so that you don't have to, Curly," and then Niall's hand is pressing into his back as he says

"Well, how're we gonna get him back to the bus stop, lads?"

Louis twists to look back at him, first over one shoulder, then the other, where Niall's closer. "I can still walk, you know," he grins, and Niall shakes his head.

"Nah, we'll carry you like we did before, or," and he reaches down to tap behind Louis' knee, "you can get on one of our backs or something."

"Yeah, I've got him," Louis hears Liam say, as he argues,

"The bus stop is, like, _twelve yards_ away, boys; I think I can manage it."

They go back and forth about it even as they start off for the bus stop, which is actually more like three blocks away, but in the end Louis walks it on his own. They take so long getting there that they miss another bus and Louis' foot hurts so badly by then that he feels ill, but the others don't chastise him when he leans up against the signpost and closes his eyes, Harry's hand rubbing ever-widening circles into the small of his back. His hand eventually makes its way into Louis' hair and Louis bats it away absently, eyes still closed, and it isn't until he feels it again, uncertain, at his back as they board the bus, that he realises he did it.

\-----

"Sweetheart, you're not really here with me, are you," Hannah asks him, and Louis wants to die.

She's got her shirt half-unbuttoned, lacy bra cups peeking out from behind the parted fabric, and she's down to her pants -- _matching set, brilliant_ , Louis had thought when he'd first undone her fly and seen them. A sliver of light from the sun cuts across her fringe, a breast, her hand where it rests on Louis' stomach, and this might be the last time he gets to see her for months and Louis loves her, thinks she looks amazing.

"I'm," he starts, wants to assure her that he _is_ here, he's here _now_ , but he knows that he's not-- not always, anymore. They've been having sex he can't remember sometimes, sex he can't feel, and now he looks at her and thinks she's gorgeous and he really, really wants to have sex with her and nothing is happening, not in his pants, and not anywhere else. He rolls away from her onto his back and throws his arm over his eyes so maybe she'll stop looking at him.

"It's all right if you're scared," Hannah says, placing a hand on his elbow, adding, "I know you're worried. But you can talk to me -- we can talk about anything, yeah?" but there's such a big difference between her thinking he's too distracted for sex and the way he's been going away, out of his head, or the way he can't always seem to translate her kisses and touches into anything that feels good anymore. He thinks, _I'm fucked up_ , but that wouldn't explain anything if he said it, so he doesn't.

"I'm pretty fucking scared," he says to the ceiling, and that's the truth. She squeezes his elbow and thankfully doesn't try to peel his arm back from over his eyes. “Can we just--” he blurts, “can we--” and he gets under her bedspread, thankful for the cover, and is struck by the desire to pull it over his head as well, just hide out for a moment until he can think of what else to say.

“What, Louis?” Hannah puts her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. “What?”

“Stay like this,” Louis says, “can we just stay, here, for a while, like this?” He feels short of breath, like he has to cry or scream or something, and fights to keep his voice steady because that's not something he thinks he'll be able to explain, either.

“Sure, sure,” Hannah says gently, winding her arms around his middle.

Later, she does her shirt up and pulls her jeans back on; they have a slap fight and eat crisps while flipping through a Topshop catalogue, and they're almost back to normal with one another. "You'll be fine," she tells him, kissing him at the door before he goes, and he knows she means with the live shows, but it's the rest Louis' afraid might come apart.

\-----

Their rooms are already assigned when they move into the X Factor house, but the boys still race to claim their own bunks, Louis tickling Harry over his until he shrieks and squeals. "Where's yours, where's yours," Harry giggles, poking at Louis' sides and stomach until he backs into it, trying to raise a leg protectively and failing. He gasps for air, one hand fending off Harry's hands and the other smothering the sounds coming out of his own mouth, and sinks down onto the mattress, succumbing to Harry's wriggling fingers.

He's crying with laughter properly now, sighing high-pitched as he says, "okay, okay, we've christened the beds, we need to move on," and Harry says,

"Chest of drawers?"

"Chest of drawers!" Louis cries, and they push at each other's shoulders scrambling out of the bunk to get to it. Harry yanks Louis back with a grip on his jumper, making him windmill for balance, and together they collide into it, shaking it so hard the mirror wobbles, Louis writhing with his back against the drawers and Harry's fingers pinned under his armpits.

"Toilet," Louis wheezes, his eyes squeezed shut, and has to race to catch up when Harry makes a bolt for the door. He bumps his shoulder into Liam, who's just coming in with another bag, and he hears Liam's voice follow him down the hall asking,

"What're you on about now? What're we doing?"

"Christening the furniture," he yells, not even bothering to turn his head as he says it. 

He wraps his arms round Harry's waist just before they reach the threshhold and hoists him over it, before toeing off his shoes and mock fainting dead away into the tub. It's then he realises, as Harry sits on the edge of the tub with a victorious "yes!" that he's just granted Harry unfettered access to his ribs.

He bangs his heel into the tap once, and his toes twice, before he's able to crawl out of the tub head-first, and then Harry rushes off, saying, "let's get the stove," leaving him to flop over onto his back, trying to catch his breath.

Zayn approaches and stands over him, grinning. "You know you sound like you two are shagging in here," he says, and Louis sighs exasperatedly.

"What part of christening the furniture _doesn't_ sound like we're shagging?" he says, rolling over to all fours and then getting to his feet, and then, just to be camp, he flaps the edges of his scarf as he runs off to meet Harry.

The kitchen's already occupied when he gets there, Wagner leaning against the stove to talk to Nicolo, and Harry's standing between them and the fridge looking a bit lost. Louis nods at him, and then at the fridge, raising his eyebrows in question, and in the instant after Harry breaks into a smile, the thump of their bodies hitting the appliance startles everyone in the room out of conversation. Louis thinks he hears Wagner say something fondly about schoolboys, but he's too busy trying to get the freezer door open to see if he can put ice cubes down Harry's shirt to be sure.

Still, he feels, he probably owes an explanation, and pauses. "We're, er. Christening the furniture," he says, one hand stretching Harry's collar horribly as Harry struggles to lean away from him, the other filled with ice.

"You probably don't want to get that on the floor," Nicolo says, gesturing to his handful of ice, and Louis nods.

"You're absolutely right," he says, and pushes his hand down Harry's shirt, lets go of both him and the ice, and runs.

\-----

They can't sleep that night, not any of them, even though they know they have an early day tomorrow, with stylists and photoshoots and just getting used to the surreality that's going to be their lives. Louis spends what feels like hours either turning over restlessly or being woken from a doze by one of the other boys doing the same, until Niall whispers, "hey," into the darkness. "Are any of us asleep yet?" he asks, and everyone's grumbled response is accounted for.

They can't exactly pile the mattresses together onto the floor, so they do the next best thing and get together on the bottom bunks instead, Harry and Louis in one and Liam and Niall in the other, because Liam had said worriedly, "we can't, there's no way we can fit," and Zayn had smiled and said, "it's all right, Liam," and placed his pillow on the floor next to Liam's head, in the gap between both sets of bunks.

"It's just for tonight, yeah?" Liam says. "Just until things settle down."

"Sure," Zayn says, and Harry lunges half out of his bunk and says,

"Zayn, Zayn, here, take my hand," and a moment later he's sighing happily, settling back against Louis like that was all he needed to make him drop off. Louis just burrows his nose in the back of Harry's curls, spooning close to him, and breathes and breathes and feels Harry go limp and finds that's enough for him, too.

\-----

Things don't settle down the next day, or the next, though they're sleeping in their own bunks by then, anxious and determined by turns. Simon stops by the studio near the end of their rehearsal to check in with them and obviously the concern is with Zayn getting his timing right by Saturday, but they've been working with him all week and he's already doing better. Simon listens to them rehearse, proclaims things well in hand, and gives them all a hug before leaving, squeezing the back of Louis' neck gently in what he reckons is a summons.

They've a little while left until the car comes to take them back to the house, so Louis gathers his things and then begs off to the toilet; he's got a staffer's key of his own, now, and hasn't seen Dean since before Marbella. Simon's waiting with his arms crossed like Louis was intentionally tardy, but doesn't comment, walking a half circle around him and asking questions like the ones he'd asked them in rehearsal: how they're gelling, whether he liked his makeover, who they're getting along with in the house, and Louis realises Simon's forming a profile of him.

He fights the urge to put his hands behind his back protectively as Simon moves around him, but he can't stop his posture from stiffening when Simon presses the length of his body up against Louis', looking down over his shoulder. "And you've been getting in early for rehearsals, I've heard," Simon says, his hand snaking around and brushing Louis' front pocket. Louis holds his breath, not sure if it's a question or whether it's rhetorical, and then Simon's fingers trace up and over the seam of his fly and he takes in a shocked breath, staggering back reflexively only to bump back into Simon.

"Yes," he says, finally. He has Simon's wrist gripped in his hand and he's not sure what he was going to do with it, whether stop him or just ask him what he was doing, because this, suddenly, is far too familiar. Simon's never touched him before, nor Louis, and he'd thought, somehow, that that meant they never would.

Instead, Simon's saying, "good, good, you're showing initiative and that'll get you far these early weeks," as he ignores Louis' weak grasp and his button and fly entirely; in one motion he twists his wrist out of Louis' hand and shoves his fingers down under the waistband of his trousers and into his pants, forcing Louis over slightly at the waist to more easily palm over his cock. He can feel Simon's erection firm against his arse already, and casts about for something to distract himself with, but Simon's only there for a moment or two more, just squeezes him and then he's pulling his hand out and saying, "you don't have a lot of time; the boys'll be waiting for you."

He exits and Louis stays for another minute after the door closes behind him, staring at the opposite wall until he comes aware of his surroundings again. He adjusts himself self-consciously despite the empty room and checks his fringe in the mirror, joining the boys well in time to see their car pull up. He loses himself in the sound of Liam's voice, diligently counting out a six-beat intro for Zayn to practice to, and does not think about how he wishes Simon had just come on him instead.

\-----

Being in the live shows means there's a dearth of time in general; the contestants, the judges, the stylists, and Dermot are in perpetual motion making pieces of the show come together. Louis sees more of virtually everyone, whether he likes it or not; of Aiden and Wagner in their pants, of Cher laughing with her mouth open, full of nachos, of the judges in seemingly every room and corridor of the studio.

Cameras following them everywhere and constant fittings and makeup retouches make Louis less accessible, but somehow there's always an available toilet, a way for Louis or Simon to get a hand inside his fly, or press him into the wall or mirror, rub against him with clothed cocks and have him swallow when they're ready to come. They're careful never to muss his hair or mouth anymore, and sometimes he looks at himself and wonders if he's dreaming what they're doing, like if he's not really in his head when it happens, there's a chance that it's not real at all.

He wanks quickly and mechanically in the shower in the mornings, mind blank, and throws himself into rehearsals and video diaries and TalkTalk segments, happy to collect and coordinate everyone and be in charge of anything the others will let him, really, if he can't be in charge of his body. None of their lives are their own anymore and they at least have that in common with one another, even Mary who reminds him of his aunt and laughs long and loud when he tells her he's going to marry her when he grows up. 

And then there's Harry; Harry who doesn't laugh at everything Louis does like Niall, which makes him an excellent straight man. Harry who's patient and clever and who Louis knows looks up to him, is happy letting Louis take the lead, pitch him ideas he can run with. Harry who has this incredibly trusting way of looking at Louis when he's riffing that makes Louis want to set every joke up just for Harry to knock down.

But Harry's always studying him, then, and sometimes when he's being really attentive Louis feels like Harry can see right through to him, _does_ see right through to him. He's alarmed by how it makes him trust Harry in return, makes him want to tell him things, some of the things he's been holding back from everyone. He doesn't think he ever will, not least because sometimes he catches Harry looking at him, studying his mouth intently as he speaks, and feels the beginnings of butterflies in his stomach and has to look away. Everything is always written on Harry's face, and Louis doesn't think he could stand it if he ever looked at Louis with anything like pity, or worse, revulsion. He doesn't ever want Harry to look at him like he doesn't know him. 

\-----

Louis has never really had a crush on a boy before. He's occasionally been turned on by thoughts of cocks, or masculine arses, but he's also had wet dreams about sports cars, so he figures the willie wants what it wants and he's fairly certain he's not interested in cars in any particularly sexual way. Still, he's considered that there might be something to it, wondered what it might be like to kiss a boy properly; he's just never had the opportunity, never known a boy he'd wanted apart from guessing at what their cock might look like. He'd told Stan of his curiosity, once, and Stan had merely asked, " _you don't want to kiss_ me _, do you?_ " not warily or anything, just trying to establish how it was going to be with them if it came to that.

Louis had said, " _god, oh, fuck, no,_ " and Stan had just nodded, shrugged, said

" _Cool,_ "

and that had been that.

He admits this to Harry as they sit together on his bunk because he's never had a crush on a boy before and he's not sure if this is what it is, and Harry simply says,

"That I've done," and Louis raises his eyebrows at him, encouraging him to continue. "Kissed a boy, I mean. I've not got off with one or anything," he shrugs, "but, yeah. It's not all that different from girls, really."

"Well, that's just because you've been kissing boys in their peach fuzz, Curly," Louis supposes, leaning in and stroking his 5-o'clock shadow close to Harry's face, though he really hasn't shaved in several days and can only just manage a shadow now. "Reckon a real man would be rather different, eh?"

"I didn't realise you were on offer," Harry tells him, his knowing smile fading just a little into uncertainty, and Louis pulls away from him, pushing at his shoulder playfully.

"Oh, Harry," he says, his voice camp and breaking, "you and your curls will never seduce me. I've a girlfriend, as you know."

Harry pauses. "Is that the only reason, then?" he says quietly, and if ever he's issued a challenge, this is it, because there's no answer for that that Louis has considered, nothing that doesn't end with them kissing or Louis thinking about them kissing, so he abruptly changes tactics.

"Nice pull," he says, impressed, and holds out his hand, palm up, for Harry to slap. They grip fingers at the end of it and then Louis turns and throws himself off Harry's bunk, saying, "'m thirsty," and heads to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea, and possibly throw it in his own face to explain how red he's gone.

\-----

They're heading into week five of rehearsals and Louis has to admit Zayn's right; their room has turned into a bit of a disaster. He has no intention of cleaning it up himself, but it's pretty appalling, all the moreso because Zayn currently has him pinned on the floor in the narrow area between their bunks, on top of piles of discarded clothing and at least one shoe. He bucks under Zayn, seeking stability, gets an arm free and braces hard with his shoulder, pushing Zayn up and getting a leg hooked over both of Zayn's, and the two of them squirm sideways for a while. Louis manages to half-cover Zayn with his torso, digging his toes into the carpet to stay immobile, then props himself up with his elbow on the ground, his fringe starting to tickle where it's stuck to his forehead and he knows his face is red and strained with effort from the way Zayn's hair flops onto his forehead, the way Zayn's neck tendons and jaw muscles are working.

Zayn's hand moves from Louis' shoulder to his hair and he feels Zayn's fingers scrabble around and then he grips a handful of Louis' hair, pulling it back just a bit with his hand, and Louis goes suddenly cold all over and freezes, panics. He lets go of Zayn entirely and rolls to the side in the direction Zayn's pulling him, going limp like a child being dragged, then pulls his legs in and kicks out with his feet as hard as he can, until Zayn's fingers loosen and he has to put his hands down protectively against the onslaught on his knees and shins.

"Wait, wait-- Louis," he says, and Louis, freed, scrambles back toward the room's door, getting to his feet and pressing his back to the wall beside it.

"Don't," he hears himself say, his voice ragged. "Don't _ever_ ," and his fingers slide against the wall behind him and he's not sure what he needs to have in his hands; he raises them to smooth down the back of his hair and then bumps his head backward into the wall, hard, just to feel something different.

"Louis," Liam says, touching his elbow gently, and Louis comes to himself, meeting his concerned eyes. Niall is standing, too, having gotten out of his bunk, hands outstretched.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean," Zayn is saying, looking stricken, still on the floor, "I thought, just, for a laugh," and Louis put that look on his face, his heart sinking as the adrenaline seeps out of him. He turns his head and Harry's there, hovering just by his shoulder, giving him a look, and that's just the look, there, that confusion he's never wanted to see.

"No, I," Louis licks his lips, finding them dry, and brings his hands out in front of him, looking down at them. "I'm sorry, I." He tries for a smile, glancing back up at Zayn. "You can be as rough as you like, Zayn, I don't mind being manhandled. Just... don't pull the hair, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," Zayn nods, biting his lip around a worried smile, and Louis pushes off the wall and comes back over, bends down over him and feels like he's fucked this, wrecked what they have. He lifts his hand slowly so that Zayn won't flinch away and then slaps feebly at Zayn's chest, letting his fingers drag down to Zayn's stomach in apology, before turning and jogging out of the room like he expects Zayn to follow.

He doesn't look back, though, just heads down to the kitchen where Mary's talking with Katie and Rebecca and Treyc are cooking up snacks, hops up on the counter, calling, "hello, gorgeous. I mean, Mary," and swings his legs, waiting to see if Zayn will appear.

Instead it's Harry who hops up next to him, nudging him with a shoulder, and if anything, that makes it worse. Harry doesn't say anything for a while, just swings his legs in tandem with Louis', but eventually he speaks and his voice is low as he says, “I thought you kind of liked, with your hair –- I mean, I know he was pulling, but you were so cross, and I thought--”

“Just leave it, Harry,” Louis says quietly, not sure if he'll be able to tell the difference between petting at his hair and pulling it anymore, too tired to care about how one has been utterly ruined by the other for him. He doesn't feel like talking anymore, but he has to know; he leans in and cups his hand around Harry's ear to whisper behind it, "is Zayn all right?"

Harry nods. He raises a hand up behind Louis' head and hovers for a moment and Louis holds his breath, but he just picks at a few strands of hair, arranging them, and lets his hand fall again. "Yeah," Harry says, and nods again. "He's good." He doesn't ask if Louis is all right. Louis knows he doesn't have to.

\-----

The producers tell them they have two hours of free time to do what they like, and Louis hasn't planned anything, just changes his joggers for trousers, gathers his phone and wallet and jacket and slips out the front door. He's on the train to Manchester, already late to return to the house, when he gets the first text from Liam - _where r u mate??_ \- so he turns off his phone and tilts his head to the window and wonders how bad it would be if he never went back.

When he gets to their house his mum smothers him with surprised kisses and makes him tea and says, simply, "what kind of trouble are you looking at, darling?" when he admits he probably shouldn't be there. "Is there anything I can tell them for you?" she asks, and he shrugs.

"I'll call," he says, warming his hands on the sides of his cup. "I'll say I'm sorry. I-- just miss you," and she comes round the counter to pull him into another hug.

"Lottie's doing her homework now," she murmurs into the top of his head where he has it buried in her chest, "she's been struggling and I should see to her, but you'll tell me if they're working you too hard down there, won't you?"

He nods, lies, his eyes burning. "They're not... it's just," he sighs into her jumper, squeezing her more tightly as he feels the tears clinging to his eyelids start to fall. "It's just a lot. It's everything, it's all a bit... much, and I... sort of yelled, and it got a bit awkward, is all." He pulls away, scrubbing at his fringe, then his cheeks, with his hand. "I'm sure we'll be fine," he tells her. "I just needed to get away for a while." Reaching to take his cup, he adds, "Don't worry, I'll see to Lottie, thanks mum," and kisses her on the cheek, letting her feel his forehead and rub her thumbs over his cheekbones, because she knows he hates being fussed over when he's like this, but he'll always let her anyway. Then he heads for Lottie's room, passing by Fizzy where she's asleep on the sofa as one of her programmes plays on the telly. He brushes her toes lightly with his fingers so as not to wake her and continues down the hall.

He helps Lottie with her Maths and checks in on the twins and helps his mum put Fizzy to bed; then his dad's home, pulling him into a strong, warm hug, saying, "it's good to see you, it's good to see you, but -- are you meant to be here?" and Louis laughs a bit wetly into his dad's chest, wary of starting crying again.

They sit together on the sofa and put on the telly but don't watch much of anything, and at around midnight Louis wakes up with his head in his mum's lap and turns on his phone, winces and holds it up as it vibrates through the stream of texts and voicemails coming through. He texts everyone that he's okay and that he'll be in on the first train in the morning, and then he goes into his bedroom and climbs on top of the duvet, hugs his pillow and falls asleep in his clothes and on his own bed.

\-----

They make it to the finals and the only thing that mars Louis' excitement about having made it this far is that Aiden isn't still with them. He can't comprehend how unfair it all is, how it could have happened that Aiden, who felt like one of the brightest, most talented personalities Louis'd seen, couldn't get through. Aiden had everything, he'd thought; there was no way Simon and Louis would ever have listened to Aiden, looked at him perform, and said that what he had was not enough. And now Aiden's been sent home and Louis is still here; it feels wrong, and it has everyone in the house shaken, but it's not about just Louis anymore. He's doing this for the others now, and they deserve the chances they've got. He's sure of it.

They do their hometown tour and at Hall Cross Louis stands on the stage in the auditorium and can't hear himself over the screaming and remembers what it was like to be too terrified to perform more than a song or two in front of a couple hundred kids at assembly. Now it's everyone packed into the hall and holding signs and he's not even singing by himself but he feels that familiar fear, a different beast entirely from performing before the lights and cameras of the X Factor studios. These are kids he's passed in the halls and who didn't even know he existed except maybe as one of the 6th Form lads a few months ago, and he feels a tiny surge of pride; he wants to do them proud, too. He'd asked the crew if they could make sure Hannah and Stan can get spots out in front, and they're out there, singing along and grinning at him while Hannah makes wanking and blowjob gestures during Summer of '69, and Stan sticks his tongue through the V of his fingers. It cuts through the fear and Louis smiles back hard through the chorus and it's well enough to get him through.

He doesn't get a chance to see Hannah since they're pretty much off after the show, but on the phone that night, she tells him about their incidental brush with fame. "There was honestly a girl in Year 9 who wanted to start a row with me over you," she says, and Louis grins, leaning back against the front door since it's one of the least populated parts of the house at the moment. There's such a lot more free space and so many fewer of them as contestants these days.

"You're joking," he says. "Why? What'd she say?"

"Well, obviously it's because I don't understand your deep and abiding love for carrots the way she does," she starts, and Louis covers his face with his hand as he laughs, although he knows Hannah won't see.

"God, I love it," he says, then deadpans, "seriously, though, was she fit?"

"Well fit," Hannah says flippantly. "I gave her your mobile number, do you mind?"

"Oh, sure," Louis says. "I'll just get myself a new number, and pretend I don't know you when you ring me next. 'Who's this Blocked Number? Never met her.'"

"You wouldn't last a week without my conversation," Hannah tells him, and when he agrees, she says, "so can I ask you something?" in a hushed voice, suddenly apprehensive. Louis presses his phone closer, thumbs up the volume to hear. "What if I met someone else? You know, if I did, what would you do?" Hannah asks.

Louis frowns, recoiling a bit. "What?" he says, and casts about in his mind for names of lads at school they both know. "I-- like who? Are you--"

"No," Hannah says quickly. "I'm not _saying_ I met someone, I'm asking. _What_ if I met someone. You know? 'Cos you're just so busy, and everywhere, and. All these girls at school are screaming for you now. And it's... been a while, for you and me," she finishes, even more softly.

"I was _joking_ , earlier," Louis says slowly. "About the girl, you know."

"I know," Hannah tells him. "I know that. But... say I met someone. You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?"

Louis takes a deep breath, brushing his fingers through his fringe, feeling fond and a bit guilty. He's not been interested in the girls, the notes with mobile numbers written on, the skimpy clothing worn in dead of winter. Hannah can't know that, and she's giving him an out, he knows, and it makes him not want to take it. But she also doesn't know about Harry, and the conflicting feelings he's been having, and they've not discussed it, but she'd been so understanding about the way they've not been sleeping together. He's sure it isn't fair to assure her about the future when he's not certain he can ever be the way he was with her again. He thinks about her with someone else and it honestly makes him feel relieved and not jealous, like she deserves something he's not able to give her anymore and he loves her enough to want her to be able to have it.

"I wouldn't be angry with you, Hannah," he says, sincerely. "I couldn't; you're incredible. I--" he bites his lip and lets out the breath he's been holding. "I would want you to be happy, I think. Would you... you could still ring me, yeah? We could still talk?"

"Of course," Hannah tells him. "I could still be your girlfriend, and you could tell people, it's more like... I could be seeing someone else, for a while, and... and if I ever wanted to come back...."

"I would want for you to feel you like could come back," Louis says carefully, speaking for himself.

"I would like that, too, yeah," Hannah says.

Louis raises a finger to his mouth and bites at the nail for a bit. "So," he says. "I love you," he blurts, and cringes at the finality of saying it like that.

"Oh, don't be silly," Hannah says. "You'll ring me in a week and I'll vote for Cher and tell you I voted for you, and nothing else needs to change, you hear me?"

"You'd vote for Cher over me?" Louis says, mock hurt. "I choose you over fit Year 9 girls and this is how you repay me?"

"Well, Wagner isn't on anymore, and he was my favourite," Hannah replies. "And anyway, I love you, too."

\-----

Louis' gratified to be in the final live show, but there's something of it, an edge, or dread, that also feels like he imagines being in the bottom three must feel like on any given night. They perform Torn again and he feels such a bigger part of it this time. They've changed the arrangement just slightly but now he feels like he helped _craft_ this, and it really does seem like they've come full circle, Zayn leaning forward confidently to sing, and Louis thinks, _we made that happen,_ all of them together. They've all come so far. But then there's no one left on the stage but them and Rebecca and when he hears Rebecca's name Louis is surprised that he's actually ready for this; it still hurts, but he's already wracking his brain, thinking of ways he can fix things.

Simon had said he'd only sign them if they won in the end, but he'd said that to the group, not to Louis. He's not made an offer to Louis yet, and Louis thinks if he can just get to Simon, well. That's what this has all been about; what Louis could do for them, what he could make happen for them, and he doesn't even care what Simon would have him do, now. It's everything else that matters. He sees Harry move out of the corner of his eye and when he glances over Harry's head is bent over his hand and he immediately reaches out for him because Harry doesn't know, can't know, that Louis will do anything to make this right again.

Backstage, the boys fall into a hug, clutching at each other with the desperation and frustration of having been _so close_ , and Louis tells them, "we're going to be okay, boys," and refuses to be chastened by Liam's warning look because Liam's hopeful but cautious, and that's just not something Louis feels much of right now. Simon takes them around and talks them up to the cameras and then invites them to his office, and Louis watches him closely, looking for an opening.

But everything's happening so fast now, and then Simon's saying, "Sony will be signing you in the morning," and Niall leaps off the sofa, pumping his fist, and Liam and Zayn are exchanging disbelieving glances, slow smiles spreading across their faces in tandem. Louis looks at Harry and Harry's beaming, grin stretched wide and gaze flitting between him and Simon and Louis doesn't know what he feels.

Simon stands and comes round the sofa to them, clapping them on shoulders when they rise. "Well done, boys," he's saying, guiding them out, "you'll have a lot of meetings and papers to look over tomorrow, so get your rest," and Louis hasn't any idea what he's to do, finds himself looking to Simon who's not meeting his gaze at all, not touching him, not even moving in his direction, his hands on Zayn's and Niall's shoulders.

And then Simon's leaving them, off to talk to press with a final warning not to tell anyone of the deal until Syco can announce it, and Louis' left staring at his retreating back, a bit lost. If they've done it, really properly done it, earned this record deal... if he's not had to fight for it, then he's not sure what that means for him, if Simon is finished with him, or, or... he doesn't know. He's never let himself think of a time when Simon wouldn't ask anything of him, or take it from him, and he can't think what it means if he's not... if he's not that, for Simon, or for the band.

He allows himself a moment of self pity to think of what he'd been willing to do if Simon had asked it, almost rocks on his feet with the horror of it, and then he realises Harry's shaking his shoulder, warm breath puffing on the side of his face, saying, "Louis!" over and over in his ear. He presses his lips together and tastes salt, touches his cheek and finds it wet with tears.

"You just sort of... went quiet for a second and started welling up, like you were sad or something," Harry tells him, then points at his own face, his own eyes full of unshed tears. "I don't know why I'm crying, either. This is supposed to be _good_ news, isn't it?"

Louis just nods and then he throws his arms around Harry's neck, rubbing the tip of his nose into Harry's cheek until he squirms. He sniffles discreetly and buries his face in Harry's collar. "Best ever," he says.

\-----

The rest of the year is a whirlwind of signing papers and contracts, management and meetings, planning gigs and their recording schedule, and Louis can't believe that this is their life, that this gets to be their life. They move into the hotel they'll be staying in after the X Factor house, and Louis and Harry christen their beds, the telly stand, the closet. They perform local gigs and check in with Simon every couple of days and it's like Simon doesn't even look at Louis anymore; he wonders if it was always that way and he'd just been too anxious to see it. He starts watching the other boys, wary when someone goes to the toilet and he's not above saying he has to go, too, just to be certain, but everyone seems just fine. Everything seems fine.

So Louis just says, "Uncle Simon," after one of their brief meetings, using the appellation Simon'd asked him to use what seems like ages ago as the other boys file out of his office. "Can I ask you a quick question?" he asks, and he remembers how Niall had given him a probing look the first time he'd called Simon 'Uncle,' the way he'd said, " _reckon I should start calling him that, too?_ " and how Louis had just looked out the window of their car and said,

" _you probably shouldn't, no._ "

"What can I do for you, Louis?" Simon asks, his hands folded in front of him on his desk, and Louis has his back to the door and makes himself come forward and sit back down in one of Simon's comfortable chairs, his hands gripping the armrests.

"What's happened?" is all Louis says, picking at the fabric beneath his fingers. It sounds like such a pathetic question to him once he's said it, like he's a jilted lover, like he's asking for more, but Simon had said, once, that he should understand how these things worked, and he doesn't, he doesn't understand it at all.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Simon says blandly, and holds out his hands. "You have a record deal with me -- that's what all that paperwork was about -- and now I'm your boss, and you're my employee. You're a good employee," he adds, "you work hard and I'm sure I can give you a good performance review come mid-year, all right?" He smirks at Louis and winks, good-natured, then raises his eyebrows in question. "Does that clear anything up for you?" he says, and it feels like a dismissal, so Louis gives him a small nod, saying,

"Yeah, thanks," and gets up to leave.

"Louis," Simon calls as he's got his hand on the door handle, and he pauses, but doesn't turn back. "I hope we'll have a good professional relationship moving forward," Simon says, and Louis takes a deep breath and fumbles with the handle, hands shaking with relief, before he's able to get back outside.

It doesn't change anything else for him, anyway; he'd started to hope, when another day would go by and nobody would come for him, or take him aside, or meet him in the toilets, that maybe things might start to get normal for him again. But he still finds fantasising about sexual things discomfiting, can't bring himself to look down when he comes into the spray of the shower.

He finds out Steve Brookstein's been tweeting shit about him because Hannah and Stan text him telling him to avoid his Twitter feed, and then Harry comes over and asks to see his phone, pocketing it when he hands it over and shuffling back over to his seat to play with his DS. Louis marches across the room to crawl over him, smacking him on the arm and then twisting his nipple, hard, until he gives the phone back up. He slouches down on the cushion next to Harry and thumbs through his feed, skimming past the retweets and indignant messages from fans until he sees the originals. He reads over them a few times, chewing on his lip, and then he realises his hands are shaking so he tosses his phone down on the table, gets up, and wipes his hands on his thighs.

"It's all rubbish, really," Harry says, looking up at him, and Louis doesn't think he's been playing his DS after all. "What he said," Harry goes on to clarify, and Louis just shrugs, pressing his lips together.

"He doesn't know me," he says, finally, and that doesn't even begin to cover it. Steve doesn't know anything about how scared he's been or how hard he's worked or how far he's come, doesn't know anything about what he's done or what he'd have done for this. "I didn't even get put through as a solo artist anyway, did I?" he says bitterly, and then he fishes around for his iPod and puts his headphones on and doesn't take them off until they're ready to pile out of the van for their gig that day.

His mum rings him later, wanting to know if he's angry or all right, telling him what a bully Steve's being and he says, "I'm fine, mum, I don't care, really," and he wonders if Steve would have walked away if Simon and Louis had said those things to him. He wonders if it would have been easy to do, for someone like Steve.

After he gets off the phone with her, he sits down on his bed and carefully types out a tweet in response, takes a deep breath and hits send. Harry texts him from across their room with " _my hero. :-) x_ " and Louis texts back, " _You are the wind beneath my wings. x_ " and when he peels back the covers, inviting Harry in, Harry comes like Louis' the one doing him a favour.

\-----

They get a week off for Christmas and Hannah spends half days with him and his family, sharing birthday cake with his sisters in his bedroom, playing at teatime. "It's like we're not even trying anymore," he laments, arms draped over Hannah's shoulders as he stands behind her in the foyer while he sees her off. He goes on his tiptoes to get the reach to try to grope at her breasts from above, but even that seems a token effort at best. "Have you met anyone?" he whispers in her ear, wiggling his fingertips on top of her breast.

"No," she giggles, and grabs his hand with both of hers to pretend she's going to throw him wrestling-style. "Have you?"

"Maybe," he says coyly. "Or no. Really, no."

He and Harry return to their hotel room in London after hols and when Harry asks him, as they're unpacking, what he got for Christmas and his birthday, Louis says, "the gift of celibacy." Over Harry's cackle, he adds, "it's all right, I'm meant to be seeing other people now, anyway."

"You and Hannah broke up?" Harry looks alarmed, but Louis' not in a mood to discuss it.

"That's just it," he says. "We didn't. She's just lovely like that, gave me a pass to shag all the willing fans I can handle."

"And you don't want them," Harry says, sagely.

"And I don't want them," Louis says.

So he tickles Harry in the toilet, pinning him against the sink, batting his knees away from his balls and occasionally tweaking a curl to keep him guessing where Louis' hands will be next, and it's the closest thing to sex Louis can imagine having anymore.

"I do believe I have the upper hand," he crows, holding one of Harry's above his head by the wrist. "I do believe that what I have here is decisively--"

Harry suddenly reaches up with his other hand and draws his fingers down Louis' face from forehead to chin, shushing him. Louis tucks his chin in and raises his eyebrows in question, stilling with Harry's other hand held in the air. "What?" he says, and Harry makes a frustrated sound and glares.

"I said shush!" Harry tells him, and Louis nods, whispers,

"What?" loudly, just to hear him growl with mock anger.

Harry gazes at him for a long moment, making him wait far past the point where it's grown awkward, the corners of his mouth twitching back up and up until Louis tosses his own head impatiently. Then he uses his free hand to pull the corners of his mouth down until his expression is neutral again.

“Don't get weird,” Harry whispers in Louis' face. “But your girlfriend said it's okay, so I'm going to kiss you now.”

Louis blinks, and his heart lurches. “You've kind of made it weird by announcing your intentions like that,” he says, trying to stop himself going all tense because there are so many variables, really, and Harry knows about his hair, but he doesn't know other things, and he's not going to think about sex with Harry just now and Harry breathes, 

"shush," and leans in.

"Wait," Louis says, and Harry pauses, gaze flicking from Louis' mouth to his eyes again. "Ask me," Louis says, softly, and holds his breath.

Harry's mouth quirks a little, half-open on a retort, but then he straightens slightly and very solemnly says, "Louis Tomlinson. Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Louis whispers, and it just feels _nice_ , really, being asked, he'd never thought it could mean so much, and then Harry's mouth is on his and _okay_ , he thinks, _okay_.

Harry's lips are soft, which Louis'd thought they would be, and he doesn't have stubble, which Louis hadn't thought he would, and he moves rather aggressively for a first kiss, which Louis probably could have imagined, but didn't. His mouth moves in tiny suckles and bites along Louis' lips like he wants to map out every inch of the outside before moving in, and Louis is about to chalk it up to youthful enthusiasm when Harry slides his tongue between his lips and suddenly every tiny bite and nibble feels sensitized, as his mouth widens to slot against Harry's, meets Harry's tongue with his own, their faces pushing his glasses slightly askew as he does.

He lets go of Harry's hand and takes a tiny step back to put space between their hips, but puts both hands on Harry's jaw, thumbs rubbing over his cheeks as they pull apart.

"So," Harry says, his breath coming just a bit heavier. "Now you've kissed a boy."

Louis gives him a disbelieving glare. "You can't have done that just because I said I was curious," he says.

"No," Harry agrees, shaking his head slowly, blinking. He waits a beat. "I did it because I wanted to kiss a real man," he says, and Louis snorts and drops his head to Harry's shoulder to giggle. 

"Louis," Harry goes on, smile evident in his voice, and Louis tilts his forehead on Harry's shoulder to take him in. "Can I kiss you again?"

Louis lifts his head and nods. "Yeah," he says, and takes his glasses off, holding them in one hand as he leans back in. He tilts his head to get closer, tongue pushing past Harry's teeth, and moans into his mouth when Harry just sucks on it, doesn't bother pushing back. The slick sounds of their kissing are amplified in the toilet and Harry keeps pressing forward with his hips, trying to close the distance between his and Louis', but Louis keeps on shifting back until his arse hits the doorframe, startling them apart. They stare at each other a moment and Louis knows he must be mirroring Harry's flushed face and wet lips. Harry's looking at him like he's rooting for secrets and Louis wants to give him one, something, even if it's something safe for now, so he reaches down and grabs his shirt by the hem, pulling it up and over his head and folding his glasses inside before setting it on the floor. They'll probably step on them later, but right now Louis can't quite manage to care.

"Can I," Harry begins, and Louis just nods and says,

"yes," letting Harry slide his hands up and over his ribs to rest on his chest, kissing him once more before he entangles his fingers in the bottom of Harry's own jumper. They pull it over his head together and Louis guides Harry back towards Louis' bed, closest to the toilet.

They snog properly once they get there, Louis stretched out between Harry's spread thighs. One of Louis' hands is resting in Harry's hair and one of Harry's is low on Louis' waist with the fingertips just dipping into Louis' back pocket, and Louis slowly becomes aware of his fading arousal, how it just seems to ebb away until he's less turned on and more feeling warm and heavy. He notices, now, the way Harry's making tight little circles with his hips against him, red-faced with his eyes shut. Harry's definitely hard in his trousers and Louis knows what his cock looks like, but he can't even bring it to mind now, to try to boost his own arousal. He sighs and rolls off Harry, still flushed with the memory of his hardon.

"Did you want to stop?" Harry asks, voice low, gripping his forearm, and Louis shakes his head, looking over and down the length of Harry's body and biting his lip. He can do this, he thinks. It doesn't have to be like anything else he's ever done.

"No," he says. "I could still," and he leans back over Harry and smooths his hair from his forehead with one hand while he reaches down and undoes Harry's fly with the other, sticks his hand into the opening in Harry's trousers, into his pants. Harry's hard and hot inside and Louis just watches his mouth fall wordlessly open as Louis takes him in hand and starts stroking; Harry closes his eyes and clutches at Louis' arm, starting up his tiny thrusts again into Louis' palm, breathing heavily and trying to stifle it.

Louis doesn't have any real technique to speak of and he's not trying to, really, just focusing on Harry's face and responding to his tics; more on this upstroke, a little tighter now, and he feels connected to Harry up there, with their heads leaned in together and nearly touching, Harry's hairline growing damp beneath his thumb. Harry chokes out a sob and his eyes fly open and he starts moaning, hips jerking hard under Louis' wrist as he comes, and Louis lets go, pulls his hand back and presses it to the sheets beside Harry's hip until Harry stops shuddering.

Harry takes a couple of deep breaths and blows them out toward the ceiling before he cranes his neck to look down at himself. "Ugh," he says. "I'm a mess," and Louis hops off the bed to forage for Harry's jumper, throwing it hard across the room at him before stooping for his own shirt and glasses. He pulls his shirt back on and waits until Harry's finished wiping himself down and tucking himself back in before approaching again and sitting on the edge of the bed, hand outstretched.

"And now you've got off with a boy," he says, as Harry places his hand in his.

"Mmm," Harry agrees. "You didn't, though," he points out, and Louis shrugs.

"I don't need to," he says, matter-of-factly. "I have amazing powers of stamina. I'm a forty-hour man; I'll have my orgasm on Tuesday."

Harry narrows his eyes at him. "I'm pretty sure that's not what's meant by stamina," he says, then, "I could blow you," he adds.

"It's all right, Harry," Louis tells him, and pulls his feet up on the bed, laying down facing him. He gestures in the air for Harry to turn over so they can spoon.

" _Can_ I blow you?" Harry asks instead, and Louis has to stifle his smile.

"No," he says, pushing on Harry's shoulder until he gives and rolls to his other side. "But thanks for asking."

\-----

Harry makes it a point to ask him for permission all the time, and though Louis hadn't at all meant for it to become standard practice, he likes being able to say "yes," and to be able to freely say "no" without a curl of panic in his stomach just because Harry's fingers are edging toward the waistband of his pants, or curving too low on his arse. 

They travel to LA to record tracks and Harry asks, "can I?" with his fingers hooked in Louis' belt loops, bumping their hips together. He asks, "can I?" as he takes Louis' hand in his and swings their hands between them as they walk down the hall to the hotel consuite for another meeting. "Can I?" he asks, fork poised over the last sausage on Louis' plate at breakfast, and Niall frowns and asks,

"hey, are you two...?" gaze moving between the two of them.

They exchange glances and then look down at the sausage, grinning, and Louis says, "er, actually, yeah, and I can't help but think that's really a bit symbolic. Good one, Niall." Niall whoops and holds up his hand for a high five, and Louis spears his sausage and feeds it to Harry.

"Wait, what?" Liam says, looking up from his phone.

"I think Harry and Louis just said they're shagging," Zayn says, his mouth still a bit open in surprise.

"Each other?" Liam says. "That's-- hey, that's great, guys," he says, putting down his phone and coming over to them to give them each hugs. "That's. Congratulations."

"I mean, is that new?" Zayn asks. "Or were you always shagging?"

"Yeah, I thought they were always shagging, too," Niall says. He holds up his hand for a high five, and Zayn gives it to him.

"Then why'd you just say something now?" Harry says, after swallowing a mouthful of tea around his sausage. "We're not doing anything different, we share food all the time. We share food with _you_ all the time."

"Yeah," Niall says, "but you don't usually look more interested in eating each other than the food."

\-----

They snog a lot, lengthy sessions, "snogathons" as Louis has dubbed them, and Louis spends a lot of time hard but happy. He doesn't mind pulling away most times when Harry starts pushing up against him, seeking friction, wiping a thumb over his wet lip and saying, "I think I fancy putting on some music. Wanna dance?" or lightly grasping Harry's hands in his as he says, "no touching," or "I'm not really happy to see you, it's just my phone's gone sideways in my pocket." When they're just snogging -- when it's just that -- he's fine, he likes it, gets turned on by it. He thinks he might be okay, thinks he might like more, and some nights they do more.

He props himself up on his elbow as he grinds down against Harry, biting gently at Harry's collarbone because he likes the sound Harry makes when he does. He could get off like this, he knows, but he never lets himself; other times he'll find he's tumbling up, away and out of his head and makes himself stop because he can't stand that, having this with Harry and just watching like he let himself do too often with Hannah.

"Can I," Harry twists his head away from Louis, gulps and clutches at Louis' shirt beneath his jumper, fingers rubbing over his back, "can I touch you?" He always asks.

Louis shakes his head into Harry's shoulder. "No," he says, hips stuttering, and he always says no. They must have been doing this a while, rubbing against each other, for Harry to ask. Louis thinks he might actually be getting off like this. He should probably stop.

"Can you, then," Harry pants, "oh, god, can you touch me," and he reaches down between them and fumbles with his belt buckle, before just shoving his trousers and pants down a few inches, not even bothering to unbutton them first. Louis can see the head of Harry's cock peek out from the waistband of his pants and drags his gaze back up to Harry's face, wide-eyed.

"Harry," he says warily, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut and says,

"Can I touch _myself_?" and doesn't wait for a response, just pushes his palm against his cock below the head, says, "oh, oh _shit_ ," and comes, into the air and over his shirt and on the sleeve of Louis' jumper.

Louis doesn't mean to, but he _can't_ , he can't be near Harry right now, and he hurriedly backs up off the bed, cards a hand through his hair. "Um," he says, shrugging his shoulders helplessly, "sorry, I didn't--"

"Sorry," Harry echoes, his face still red and a bit shocked. "That was... sudden." He tucks his cock back in past his waistband but his erection hasn't gone completely down yet, his trousers still slightly tented with it. He reaches out for Louis. "You can come back," he says. "I'm sorry, you were close, I could tell--"

"No," Louis says quickly, and he's not anywhere even close to coming, anymore. He knows this is not the appropriate response to having the boy you're getting off with actually successfully get off, and he says, "I have to," and heads for the toilet. He sees Harry start to sit up as he goes but then he's shutting the door behind him, leaning back against it and he makes himself take a few breaths. They don't help, just make him more aware that Harry came on him, on his jumper, and he feels like he can smell it on him, so he shrugs out of it, wads it up and throws it against the tub. He leans over the sink, gripping the counter, and tries to get his breathing under control. Then he sighs, stripping out of the rest of his clothes and starting the shower.

He strokes himself hard and fast under the water, the quickest and easiest way for him to come, and thinks it's ironic that Harry probably suspects he's wanking right now, but not like this, not the way he can't get off with anything but pressure anymore. He thinks of the way Harry had pushed down his pants, needy, how he couldn't stop himself coming, from wanting Louis so badly, and he suddenly wants to cry. He can't go on like this, he knows. He can't fix himself on his own.

He puts the same clothes back on because he knows they're still clean, that Harry only got the jumper and he'll deal with that later, and when he comes out of the toilet, his wet hair slicked back, Harry's sitting on his own bed, having changed into different clothes entirely. His fringe is tucked tight behind his ear, which Louis knows means he's been fussing with it, pulling it taut again and again, and Harry says, "you have to talk to me, Louis."

Louis purses his lips and puts his hands in his pockets, shuffling over to sit beside Harry. "Yeah," he says.

"I feel like I'm doing everything wrong with you," Harry says sadly.

Louis shakes his head. "No, it's... it's me. I'm, um." He heaves a sigh. "Not okay," he admits. "I probably need," he shrugs. "Some kind of, like, help, or counselling or something, I don't know, I'm just. I know I'm not all right. I don't... _feel_... all right."

"Okay," Harry nods slowly. "Okay," he says.

Louis pulls his hands out of his pockets and puts them in his lap and stares hard at them, taking a deep breath, then another, steeling himself, and the words for this won't come, he can't sort them to explain this. "Harry, I've done..." he begins, hesitantly. "Things, with Simon, and Louis, um." He bites his lip. "Like, sexual things, to get put through on the show. For us to get put through."

He hears Harry's sharp intake of breath and twists his fingers together. "But-- when?" Louis only barely hears him say, and he shrugs again.

"Since I auditioned," he says, and Harry mutters,

"oh, god."

"Until, um. The finals."

"Oh, _god_ ," Harry says, and Louis feels his hand clamp down heavily on his shoulder. "How did you... but we're on... have you told anyone else?" he asks quietly, urgently, his face right up next to Louis', but Louis can't bring himself to meet his gaze.

"Just you," he admits. "I don't know if I can... if I could... tell anyone else." He chews on his lip a bit. He'd thought he'd feel better, saying it the first time, like he'd feel unburdened, like he could move on, but he doesn't. He's just as ashamed and guilty and angry as before, and he's glad, at least, that he doesn't have to hide it from Harry now, but he doesn't feel any better about it and he wonders why he ever thought he might, how he could possibly feel better just because he'd admitted it enough times to enough people.

"But you should do," Harry's insisting. "I mean, you even said, you should get counselling, it can help--"

"Kind of difficult to get to a regular counsellor in our line of work, don't you think?" Louis says, a little sharply.

He chances a look at Harry and Harry seems taken aback by that. "I guess I... I guess," Harry says. "But there's. There's numbers, like, hotlines and. God, we _work_ with him! I don't know what to tell you," he says, in a small voice. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Louis shakes his head, still looking at his fingers. "I did... really a lot of awful things," he says, his eyes burning.

"But they made you do them," Harry says.

Louis thinks back on all the things Louis and Simon said to him, the questions and offers, and shrugs again.

"But they _made_ you do them," Harry repeats. "They-- it's not your fault, whatever you did."

His eyes are full of tears and he doesn't really want to argue about it, so "okay," Louis says softly.

"Louis," Harry says, and his face looks stricken when Louis glances over at him.

"They didn't make me do all of it," Louis says, and blinks the first few tears out of his eyes. "I didn't have to do all of it." He pulls his feet up on the bed and wraps his arms around his knees so he can hide his face in them.

"But no, that's-- why would you say that?" Harry gets up on his knees next to him, hand kneading his shoulder, like he's pleading. "Because that's not, that's like, the first thing everyone ever--"

"Because I'm not sorry," Louis blurts, into the shadow of his knees. "Because," he heaves a sigh into the denim there, "I wouldn't have any of this, anything, if I hadn't. I wouldn't-- because I could've said, I could've stopped it and I didn't, I wanted--" he cuts himself off, fights for air.

"But that's," Harry says, softly, "why it's, like. Not _consent_ , isn't it, I mean, if someone has power or, or you're doing it for something--"

"But it," Louis gulps. "But it _is_ , it's not like." He chokes back a sob. "I went to them, I--"

"You couldn't have done," Harry whispers.

"I didn't want to be _nothing_ ," Louis insists, and he can't keep the thick, choked sound of tears out of his voice, feels his knees grow warm and wet with them as he cries. "And then there was the, the band and I did it for us and I-- wouldn't say no, I wouldn't have--" he sobs. "I wanted to protect you, because-- he would've--" Louis presses his lips together and tries to keep it together long enough to finish because he doesn't know if he ever will, if he doesn't now. "I would have done-- anything," he says, shuddering, and covers his head with his arms, wants to disappear.

He feels Harry knee up closer to him, feels his arms come round to hug him from the side and he's muttering to himself but Louis can hear him, just "oh my god, my god, Louis, how can I help you, Louis, I'm so sorry, Louis,"

and he feels like he's going to be sick from shame and crying and he leans over, trying to get onto his side; Harry goes with him, follows him down and lays behind him and puts his hand over both of Louis' where they're clutching at his own hair. Harry lays there with him and he stops crying eventually, feeling ragged and sore and worn out, and then Harry says, "I'm really, really sorry," and Louis turns around and sees that Harry's been crying, too. "Can I--" Harry begins. "Can I still be with you? Can I stay with you?"

Louis blinks at him and his eyes feel gritty and swollen as he nods and says, "yeah. Yeah, please."

\-----

They don't have a day off right away, but Louis manages, gets rested at night and he knows Harry's keeping an eye on him during the days, always careful to ask permission and always ready to intervene if one of the boys get too handsy. "I don't mind being cuddled on, Harry," he tells him, but he does it with fans and interviewers, too, if they get too familiar, put a hand on his arm without checking with him first, and Harry says,

"Just being careful, is all," and if he's honest Louis' grateful.

The next day off Louis calls a crisis number they've looked up because Harry'd begged him, saying, "please, please, you have to tell _someone_ ," and it actually is easier to say it the second time, though probably because he doesn't have Harry's reaction to fear, or worry anyone's watching him describe his shame. He cries again, and has to put the phone down at one point to go to the toilet and lean against the bowl trying not to be sick, but in the end he gets a few e-mail addresses of contacts, and a few links to message boards for survivors of sexual abuse. They tell him it's not his fault and he nods, says "I know," and intellectually he does, but he hopes he'll be able to believe it one day, too.

He doesn't tell Harry everything at once, just things he's thinking sometimes, when he thinks of them. He says, "Sometimes I fantasise about tearing them to pieces, like, with my bare hands and my teeth and everything," as they're sat watching a DVD. He glances over at Harry who's watching him carefully, and Harry nods in acknowledgement, the only indication what he's heard bothers him in the way his knuckles have gone white where he grips his phone, or the way he's gnawing on his lip. "I fantasise about that more than anything," Louis admits.

Months of touring with the other X Factor finalists means months Louis doesn't have to be in the same room as Simon, and despite the lack of stability he's settling into his own routine of messageboards, and Skype, and texts and e-mails with other survivors, with families of survivors. Harry's in contact with some of them as well, and sometimes Louis will come out of the toilet and find Harry sitting with his face illuminated by the screen of his laptop, wiping tears from his face, and know that at least he's not suffering through this alone, any more than Louis has to anymore. He loves Harry fiercely, now, and he's finding a way to be thankful for having him that doesn't let him blame himself for everything else that happened to him along the way.

He tells the other boys near the end of the tour, because they'll be back in London soon, back in Simon's office, and he thinks he'll be fine, but he doesn't want to blindside them. This is their job, their lives; they can figure out what to do with the details later. He tells them and Niall cries and Zayn hugs him and won't let go, murmuring, "sorry, I'm so sorry, I understand now, I'm so, so sorry," and Liam sounds so bewildered when he says,

"How could we not know? How could we not-- you were hurting and, and everything you were going through-- I don't understand how we could not see that?"

"There was a new boy in my school parish, the last year I was in," Niall tells them, his face red and blotchy with tears. "He said there was a priest at his old parish that had some accusations against him, and they couldn't get it prosecuted so his family just moved, to get away from him." He glances up at Louis. "He was like you, sometimes, like the way you could be sometimes, and... I think back on some of the things you did and sometimes I think I could've known, but I never said. I mean, how do you ask that?" His chin crumples and he scrubs at his face with his hands. "I'm sorry I didn't ask," he says, and Louis shakes his head.

"It's nobody's fault in this room," he says, "and believe me when I say it took me months to actually think that was true."

They ask him if he's all right, and he says, "I don't know." He's not the way he was anymore, but he's no longer afraid all the time of being found out, of having someone look too closely and see the ways in which he's not working properly. But he still never can tell when Harry might stroke a hand down his hip and make him go far away and distant, or sense memory might make him go cold all over, feel like he can't breathe for a moment. He's got to tell his mum and dad and maybe even the authorities someday, because he doesn't want this to happen to anyone else, but all he can do is what he does every day, which is whatever he thinks he has to do.

He leans back between Harry's legs where he's sat above him on the sofa. "I don't know," he says. "I think I will be."

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, it started with [these](http://www.metro.co.uk/showbiz/850810-steve-brookstein-slammed-by-one-direction-fans-after-no-talent-rant) [articles](http://www.list.co.uk/article/31476-one-direction-star-slammed-by-steve-brookstein/) which made me feel a bit sad and protective, and for some unknown reason I felt compelled to poke the bruise, hard. And then I was waking up in the middle of the night scribbling things down and moaning to myself, "but Louis is so SAD and BROKEN!" and "I am a horrible person!" and 20,000 words later, here we are.
> 
> Prompt: _I'd like something taking place through the early days of the X Factor, where Louis and Simon give Louis the impression that he passed his audition due to his potential for sexual favors and not his talent alone. "Favors" are called in and he's forced to service them (blowjobs, letting them come on him, non-penetrative activity etc), separately or together, for fear of being eliminated. When he gets into One Direction Simon coerces him to keep doing it to ensure support for the group and to protect the other, younger boys. This ultimately casts a wrench in his burgeoning relationship with Harry, as he's too ashamed of what he's doing to let it go to the next level. Finally he lets himself break down in front of Harry and they consumate their flirtation and Harry starts working on Louis' self-esteem, convinces him to put an end to the extortion no matter the outcome. Up to the author whether things go well or not, or whether the other boys get involved. I'd love a happy ending but I have my doubts whether that's possible D:._


End file.
